


The Circus of Lost Time

by gompadre



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, Minimal Depictions of Gore, Minor Character Death, killer clowns, lots of references to the night circus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 16:17:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21256175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gompadre/pseuds/gompadre
Summary: There's a haunted circus in town, and Jongin's friends want to go, but he's got a bad feeling about this.





	The Circus of Lost Time

**Author's Note:**

> this is probably not as scary as i meant for it to be but BE WARNED: THERE IS A DEATH SCENE IN HERE. IT'S NOT SUPER GRAPHIC BUT THERE ARE KILLER CLOWNS AS WELL. Happy Halloween!!

The _Cirque du Temps Perdu_ has always lived on the edge of the town. It’s abandoned. In fact, it has always been, at least for as long as anyone in the town can remember. It’s still beautiful, even though it’s a haunting kind of beauty. The tents are in tatters, the stripes of black and white stained by rain, and half the stands have collapsed, the paint on the boards washed out to reveal the splitting planks of wood.

Yet on overcast autumn days, it is possible to catch a whiff of kettle corn, and hear the lilt of a circus waltz on the edge of the cold breeze. And on some nights, when the mist is thick between the tents, it looks like the lights are on, a washed out, butter-yellow warmth that is too muddled by the haze for anyone to make out whether it is true or not.

But the circus is not a safe place. The word in town is it’s haunted, and every few years a couple of hard-headed teens (and sometimes not-teens, who should know better because they’re older) decide they’re going to sneak in, and never come out. The first few times, they sent police in to search for them, but they never made it out, and the volunteers who tried to storm it afterwards with torches and pitchforks were stopped by a massive iron gate, locked in a forest of chains (no one remembers if this gate had always been there. It hadn’t). On Halloween, they post two deputies to watch the gate so that no one can sneak in.

And yet, that doesn’t stop Jongin’s moronic friends from wanting to try anyway. They’re on their college freshman freedom high and think they can conquer the world (never mind that the campus is only fifteen minutes from the suburbs they grew up in), so naturally that includes doing something daring and forbidden. It’s Moonkyu’s idea, but Wonsik, Taemin, and Sungwoon heartily agree. Which sucks, because Jongin _really_ doesn’t want to go, but he also doesn’t want anything to happen to these idiots. Not that he’d know what to do, because if push comes to shove he’s not sure how he’s going to drag three fully-grown dudes out of there, but at least he’ll be there with them.

“The main gate is that way, you moron,” Taemin snarls.

“We can’t _go _through the main gate because the _deputies_ are there, you moron,” Moonkyu spits back.

“Wait, there’s another entrance?” Jongin asks.

Which is not comforting at all, actually. Does that mean whatever spooky shit is inside can just…slip out into town whenever it wants to? He shudders.

“Are you already scared?” Wonsik teases, punching Jongin’s shoulder.

“As I _should_ be,” Jongin hisses. “As all of _you_ should be, too.”

“You’re such a wuss,” Taemin snickers.

But then he screams when Wonsik pinches his waist. Typical. Jongin tightens his jaw, because he really _is_ freaked out right now and he doesn’t need them making more of a racket when his nerves are so frayed, but they won’t care. They’ll find it funny.

They’re rowdy until they get close to the circus. There’s something about the thick wreaths of mist snaking between the tents, the ragged flags atop the tents rippling forlornly in the breeze, and the one-two-three, one-two-three of the waltz that is _definitely_ not a hallucination that makes all of them shut up. The iron fence acts as a tenuous cage, trapping the circus within it but not its sinister aura.

The side entrance is made of iron, a giant horseshoe painted in black and white and topped with an antique clock. The hands are elaborate, each topped with a fleur-de-lis, but only the seconds hand moves. The minutes is stuck on the twelve, the hour on the nine, but the seconds hand continues its frantic ticking. Below that, a wooden banner, carved to look like it’s unfurling, and painted white with a black border. Curling black letters spelled out _The Cirque du Temps Perdu_, but the most curious thing is the lack of doors. It’s completely open, an archway that yawns onto the path, which is made of alternating bands of black and white tiles.

Jongin shivers. Nothing about this place feels right. Even his idiot friends are quiet, but that doesn’t stop Taemin from taking the first step into the circus grounds. And then he screams.

Jongin screams too, but when he realizes Taemin is laughing, he stops.

“I knew you’d fall for it,” he snickers.

“If this circus doesn’t kill you, I will,” Jongin snarls.

“Ooh, tough guy,” Wonsik teases.

And because all of his friends are absolute dicks, Sungwoon and Wonsik shove Jongin past the gate next. He squeaks, hugging his arms around himself while Wonsik, Moonkyu, and Sungwoon argue over who enters next.

“Can you hurry up, I’m freezing my ass off,” Taemin snaps.

“Oh are you?” Wonsik asks. “Are you cold? Are you _actually_ cold, or are you just scared?”

“You’re the fucker who hasn’t stepped foot inside the circus yet,” Taemin spits back, cackling at the face Wonsik pulls.

Moonkyu winks at Jongin, then wiggles his eyebrows at Sungwoon, who grins. They shove Wonsik in next, their peals of laughter when he nearly falls on his face disrupting the eerie silence. He _really_ does not want to be there. He’s also fairly certain he saw something move past the stands, which makes his hands tremble.

“Can you fucking keep it down?” Jongin hisses.

“Dude, are you legitimately scared?” Moonkyu asks. “This place is a dump, we’ll be fine.”

“And yet, you’re still standing outside,” Taemin says. Wonsik chimes in just in time for them both to say, “Pussy.”

“It was _my _idea to come here,” Moonkyu huffs, but he shoves Sungwoon in as he speaks.

“Hey!” Sungwoon shrieks.

They laugh. And they all laugh loud. Jongin gulps, looking over his shoulder at the nebulous darkness, and he swears the stands look a little better now, not quite as broken down as they’d looked from the outside. It doesn’t ease his fear in the least.

“What if I just leave now?” Moonkyu asks, stroking his chin.

“If you do that, I’m ripping your balls off,” Wonsik snarls.

“Oh, I’m _so_ scared,” Moonkyu moans, cackling at the look on their faces. “Oh, fine. See? I’m walking in now.” But he pauses just inside the gate, a mischievous smile on his face. “What if I…” he starts, pretending to take a step back.

“Knock it off,” Sungwoon says.

They pull him into the grounds completely and start down the path. There’s an eeriness to the whole place that keeps Jongin on edge. The waltz continues to play, sputtering and starting and skidding to sudden stops, as if the wind-up mechanism that plays it is dysfunctional. In fact, Jongin is surprised it’s still playing at all, considering how long this place has been abandoned. It’s part of why something feels off…

They don’t walk long before their way is blocked by a funhouse. It’s plopped right in the middle of the path, squeezed between two tents, and the delicate black paint on the white background shows phantom figures in endless rooms, patterns that repeat along the walls and the friezes. It’s also, curiously, not falling apart. The wood of the porch looks sturdy, and the paint looks fresh. The lights are on, illuminating the pitch-black door, and the sign above the entrance that says _Mirror Maze_ gleams as if freshly varnished.

“Let’s go in,” Moonkyu blurts.

“What? No!” Jongin squeaks.

“Dude, literally nothing has happened this whole time. It’s fine,” Moonkyu says.

“Don’t you think it’s a little weird that this place looks brand new?” Jongin asks, jabbing is finger towards the door. “We’ve walked far enough, we should leave now.”

“Nope, we’re going in,” Moonkyu says.

“It’s just a mirror maze, what’s the worst that could happen?” Sungwoon says.

Jongin wants to reply that a _lot_ of things can happen, but Wonsik and Taemin have agreed, and he’s damn well not standing outside by himself. He follows Moonkyu up the steps, cursing when a sign pops up from between the floorboards. It reads:

Welcome to the Mirror Maze! But first, remember your gloves.

“Gloves?” Moonkyu asks, but a box pops out from beneath the sign.

Inside of it, there are five pairs of gloves. Jongin shudders, because nothing says haunted mirror maze like a box that knows exactly how many gloves to provide. The others put their gloves on, but he pockets his, shivering. The box and sign fold themselves to one side, and the door creaks open. Moonkyu steps in first, disappearing into the darkness of the tunnel, followed by Wonsik and Taemin. Sungwoon narrows his eyes at Jongin, but shrugs and steps in anyway. Jongin gulps, taking a deep breath to soothe his nerves, but he swears he smells the sugary sweetness of caramel, faint and warm as it was diffused by the cold. He licks his lips and tries to calm the erratic beating of his heart, because he knows nothing in this circus should be working. Nothing should smell like caramel, and none of the lights should be on. But he’s been standing here too long, so he finally steps inside. The door closes behind him, and he’s left in darkness.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust. The lights are very dim, and the mirrors warp and distort that light, a labyrinth of false images. He realizes the gloves are meant to protect the mirrors, to keep fingerprints and hand smudges off the glass, but he doesn’t care to put them on. In fact, he wishes none of them had, so he could follow after them. But there’s nothing except his own reflection, extending infinitely to each side, so he starts to walk.

He walks into a mirror, not realizing the hall turns, but there are too many reflections, too many of his own scared eyes staring back at him. He reaches out, feeling for a hall to walk down, but the secondhis palm touches the cold glass, the music begins to play. He screams, because he really was not expecting the tinkling bells that started the waltz, and he’s pretty sure he hears one of his dickhead friends laughing at him, but he takes a second to catch his breath before he continues.

The dim lighting makes his chest tighten. He thought he would be able to keep his cool, but the maze seems never ending. He’s turned twice to the right, once to the left, and all he sees is himself, over and over. With each turn, the hall shrinks in size, he’s sure of it, and the trumpets of the waltz continue to taunt him. Each breath he takes is more labored. Jongin’s pretty sure he’s going to pass out soon. The walls continue to close in on him, the darkness and the heat of the old lightbulbs restricting his lungs.

A woman begins to sing along to the waltz, her voice operatic and deep. It makes his skin crawl. He’s not sure he can be any more freaked out than he is, not when his heart is drumming against his chest, and not when he feels like the mirrors will crack and crush him and trap him in this horrid place.

A hand grabs his back. Jongin screams, punching wildly, but he stops when he recognizes the laugh.

“Wonsik, you fucking asshole,” he snarls.

He punches Wonsik’s stomach. Hard. But Wonsik just keeps laughing.

“I didn’t think you’d be that scared,” he chokes, rubbing his stomach.

“Let’s just get the fuck out of here,” Jongin says, his voice cracking.

“Dude, it’s literally just a funho—”

A scream cuts him off. A scream that sounds legitimately terrified, and suspiciously like Moonkyu. And of course, as they try to figure out where the scream came from, the volume of the music increases, the singer’s voice drowning out another scream.

“We need to find him,” Jongin says, his voice thick with fear.

“How the fuck are we supposed to do that?” Wonsik asks. “Besides, he probably just took a good look at himself in the mirror.”

But before Jongin can snap at him, a clown appears. It’s tall, its width taking up the entire hallway, and in its white-gloved hand it holds a cleaver.

“W-wonsik,” Jongin mumbles, “we need to run.”

“Dude, it’s just an actor,” he chuckles, but he doesn’t sound entirely convinced. “I’m pretty sure that thing is a prop.”

“Run, stupid,” Jongin snarled, grabbing Wonsik’s hand.

But his idiot friend just stays put. The clown starts towards them, readjusting its grip on the cleaver to swing.

“Fuck!” Wonsik screams.

The cleaver grazes his arm, cutting cleanly through his shirt, but it only just scratches him. Jongin had pulled him out of the way just in time.

“Now do you believe me?” Jongin screeches, breaking into a run.

“Just fucking run!” Wonsik yells.

They try to go as fast as they can, but the mirrors are tricky things, promising an escape where there is a mirror, reflecting hallways to make them look like a dead ends. Jongin gives up on being delicate. He slams into several mirrors, wincing when they crack under his weight, but he doesn’t care. He needs to get out. They need to get out. The clown continues to chase them, but its pace is not rushed. Granted, one step from the clown equals three of Jongin’s steps, so it doesn’t _need_ to run, but it still looms behind them, too close for Jongin to focus. Wonsik shoves him left, into an intersection. The path splits into the three, at least from what they can tell, and all three hallways look equally menacing. Jongin pauses for a second, looking over his shoulder to see the clown closing in on them, so he picks the hall to the left. But, before he dips in there, he swears he sees another clown down the hall on the right carrying a body. And the arm that hangs from the clown’s back looks like Moonkyu’s, blood staining the blue and white plaid of his sleeve.

“Moonkyu?” Jongin screams, but Wonsik pushes him down the hall.

“Keep fucking running,” Wonsik snaps.

So they do. Jongin’s heart is in his throat now, and he’s not sure how he’s breathing right now when his lungs are burning, and despite the desperate need to get out of there, he can’t seem to run any faster, his body following the one-two-three, one-two-three of the waltz that plays over the screams. Yes, he’s pretty sure he’s heard another scream, one that sounds like Sungwoon, and he chokes a sob, but he keeps running, crashing, breaking mirrors and cutting his hands, tripping over his own feet which want to dance, to hop-two-three, skip-two-three, twirl-two-three to the waltz. He hears Taemin scream, but he can’t stop. Wonsik won’t let him. He won’t let himself. He’s pretty sure he hears another voice singing, crooning, “Waiting, we’re waiting for a superhero intervention,” but everything is a whirl, too much sound, too loud, the operatic singing, the trumpets, the rush of his own heart, their footsteps on the floor, the breaking mirror, the thump-thump-thump of the clown’s footsteps—

A door. He sees a door. He’s pretty sure it’s a door, at least, and every part of him wants it to be a door, _please_ be a door that leads them outside. Wonsik stumbles into him, but he doesn’t slow down. They’re almost free. He can practically taste the cold autumn air, sweet and earthy with the scent of decaying leaves and rain-soaked mud.

The clown swings again, and Wonsik screams, just as Jongin throws himself against the door. It breaks, popping off the hinges and sending Jongin flying. It slides down the steps, and Jongin rolls a few times before he comes to a stop. He sits up, but breathes a sigh of relief when Wonsik stumbles out of the house. Taemin is behind him, out of breath and sweaty, but unharmed. They’re on the other side of the funhouse now, and in front of them is the heart of the circus. It’s eerily quiet, just the twangs of another waltz, but the lightbulbs begin to pop and fizzle as they spark to life. The ferris wheel groans as it starts to move, and the little carts buzz as they start to make kettle corn. But still, not another soul.

“How’s your arm?” Jongin asks when he finally catches his breath.

Wonsik winces, lip curled as he takes a look at his wound. It’s superficial; the bleeding has already stopped.

“I’ll live,” he jokes, but the mirth doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Where are—” Taemin begins, but an organ interrupts him.

A mime pops out from behind a tent. He’s about Taemin’s height, with droopy eyes and a mischievous smile. He mimes riding a bike, which honestly, Jongin’s not sure how the fuck he’s doing that so well, before he parks in front of them. Then he pulls one of the caramel apple carts close, and mimes dipping an apple in caramel, but his hands are empty. At least, they were just a second ago. The mime flicks his wrist, as if to shake the excess caramel off, and suddenly there is a caramel apple in his hand.

They all gasp. He hands the apple to Taemin, then makes two more, one for Wonsik, one for Jongin. The caramel is gorgeously goopy, dark enough to look black, which matches the rest of the circus’s monochromatic scheme. The desire to sink his teeth into it is sudden and strong, and as he takes a deep breath. The sweetness of the caramel is so rich it melts away the rest of his fear, and his hands no longer tremble. He’s even forgotten…what did he forget? He feels like he’d been worried about something, about someone, just now, but the waltz keeps playing and the mime is doing acrobatics and the sweet, sweet caramel makes his mouth water…

But something strikes his knuckles and he drops the apple. He hisses, sucking the blood from the tiny cut. Something, or someone, threw a rock at him. And now his apple is on the ground, dust and dirt sticking to the gleaming caramel. He mourns it, pouting as Wonsik snickers, because of course both he and Taemin were both halfway done with their apples.

“Gimme a bite,” he whines, but they both shake their heads.

The mime smiles, but there’s something about him that seems a little tense. He peers out to the stands, where the rock came from, but upon not seeing anything, he shrugs and waves them closer. He gestures for them to follow him, then mimes playing a guitar. He walks with a little hop in his step that is almost cute.

As they walk down the main path, Jongin notices that all the lights are on. Not the dim, flickering, weak lights of the entrance, but a blaze of yellow that parts the mist. The scent of kettle corn and caramel apples is unmistakable now, and all the stands are decked out in black and white paint with stripes and swirls, little cloth banners announcing their wares without a split, crack, or torn hole in sight.

The _Grand Chapiteau_ is an imposing tent. It’s nearly as large as the Mayoral Hall, crowned by an elaborate clock. It is also in pristine condition, its black and white stripes unstained. The music grows louder as they approach the tent, and soon it drowns out Jongin’s thoughts. All of him is the waltz. He’s already skipping a little as he walks to match the beat, and he doesn’t trip or miss a step. Not once. Not even because he’s not thinking about it.

The main tent flaps are open, and they glimpse a halo of lights drenching the ring. The mime turns to them and winks, then backflips his way into the tent. Jongin gasps, but a scuffle to the right makes him pause. There’s nothing outside the tent but twinkling lights and the perfume of hot cider, so he shrugs and follows Taemin and Wonsik in.

The waltz that plays is elegant, not the same toy box sound of the calliope from the entrance of the circus. This one is a waltz of guitars and violins, of deep drums and tambourines, the tinkle of beads from the arms of the performers. The inside of the tent is a riot of colors, unlike the outside of the circus. Above them, on massive crystal chandeliers, are aerial acrobats in jeweled lingerie of dust blue and pomade pink, even as a woman dripping in red crosses a tight wire. On the ground, a man in a Cyr wheel rolls between them, which makes Jongin jump back in surprise and collide with a juggler in a multi-colored striped jumpsuit. Within the chaos, a trio of girls in lime green perform a balancing act on a bed of lightbulbs, while another juggles parasols with her feet.

And above it all, the ringmaster. She is old, her hair black as a raven’s, but despite her small stature she is an imposing figure. The close cut of her wine red jacket and the black silk of her top hat are impeccable. She also looks a little familiar, but Jongin’s not sure where he’s seen her…

Beside her is a woman about Jongin’s age. She’s practically a waif, a sickly pallor to her skin, but she watches the performance with gaunt eyes and a small smile. She’s not dressed for the circus in her dress of charcoal gray and neatly tied boots.

Even with the distance, the ringmaster spots them, and she looks right at Jongin with sharp eyes. Something about the look in her eyes makes him shudder, but before he can think more on it, the mime approaches them, doing a pitch tuck with the juggler to land in front of them.

“Welcome to the _Cirque du Temps Perdu_,” says the mime.

Jongin grins, then, “wait, you talk?”

The mime laughs, but doesn’t answer. Instead he does a front aerial flip right over Jongin’s head, then dips into a bow.

“Holy shit,” Jongin murmurs.

Taemin and Wonsik are equally spellbound, staring at the twin contortionists, who’ve tangled themselves in a way Jongin doesn’t want to figure out. It’s difficult to tell where one body ends and the other begins, but the contortionists keep twisting and twining with wide smiles.

But the music changes, no longer a waltz but the sweet notes of a flute and a guitar.

“You are dancers, are you not?” the mime asks; somehow, Jongin suspects the question is only directed at him. The mime is giving him a _very_ intense look, a knowing grin on his face.

The strange thing is Taemin and Wonsik are already dancing. Their dances don’t quite match the music, but the music speaks to Jongin, calls him to dance, to stretch his arms and point his toes as he turns. He takes a step, then another, preparing himself to spin. He is poised, arms outstretched, but—

A boom crashes through the _Grand Chapiteau_. One of the beams falls, and Jongin has a moment of clarity. He’s in a tent. A big circus tent. Taemin and Wonsik are gone, lost in the crowd of performers, but he doesn’t have more than a second to process it before he’s pulled out of the tent.

He’s running. Someone is holding his hand, pulling him between tents and stands, weaving through unpaved paths, and the farther he gets from the _Grand Chapiteau_, the shabbier things look, until he’s pulled into a boarded up building. There are the remains of a small stage on one side, chairs with faded velvet, and lots of dust.

Now that he can catch his breath, he takes a good look at the other person in the room with him. A mime? Yes, a mime, but not the same one from the tent. This mime is shorter, with wide eyes and his heart-shaped lips filled in completely with red. His hair is styled in a kiss curl, and he wears a black beret.

So naturally, Jongin screams. The mime gasps and clamps his hands over Jongin’s mouth, shaking his head frantically. There’s something about his eyes that feels…human in a way that the other mime’s hadn’t, so Jongin stops screaming.

“You’re— What’s happening?” he asks.

The mime grimaces, then holds up his hand for Jongin to wait. He rummages through a box on the corner of the stage, and pulls out a wad of paper and a pencil.

“You don’t speak?” he asks.

The mime gives him an exasperated look, then starts to write.

“So…you can’t mime it out either?” he asks, because he’s really confused.

The mime glares at him, then points to the paper and mimes zipping his mouth shut.

“Alright, fine,” he murmurs.

He takes a seat while the mime starts to scribble. It’s nice to have a breather, because…because? He’s actually not sure why. His mind feels fuzzy, and if he tries to remember what’s happened to him in the past hour, he comes up blank. Well, he remembers that he was terrified, and his heart does him the favor of speeding up, his palms clammy. What scares him most is he’s not sure he wants to remember.

Before he can wallow in his terror any longer, the mime hands him the paper. Jongin takes it gingerly, angling himself to get closer to the light that’s slipping through the cracks of the boards. It reads:

My name is Kyungsoo. This place is under a spell. Many years ago, we were an actual circus, and I was a singer. We used to tour through small towns, performing our acts. We were successful because we were good, but Granmere’s magic made us better. With her, we could do things other circuses could only dream of. But then Granmere decided we had to stay put. Her granddaughter, Annette, was dying. But there was no cure for this disease, not through science and not through magic. Granmere was desperate, so she bound us all to her granddaughter’s soul. This circus, all the performers in it, are continually feeding her to keep her alive. Yet we expend so much to keep her alive that the circus can’t run, not without other people. That is why the people who come in here disappear. They are either killed instantly to run the circus, a boost of sorts, or they are yoked under Granmere’s spell. That is for those who are stronger, their souls brighter. That is what she means for you. If you’d eaten the caramel apple, you would consumed her spell.

At this, Jongin pauses, eyes wide in horror. He remembers his own apple on the ground, but Taemin and Wonsik…

“My friends, they’re bound to this place now?” he asks.

The mime nods, but gestures for Jongin to continue.

Then they tried to get you to dance. If you’d finished the song, you would have danced yourself to Annette’s soul. I am the only one here who can resist Granmere’s spell. She has never been able to corner me for long enough to break me, so she cannot force me to do her will, but once she realized I’d started warning people, she took my voice. That is why I cannot speak. And it is why I cannot mime. I was not meant to be one.

Jongin gives the mime a sheepish grin, but the mime waves his bashfulness away.

“What is Granmere’s name?” Jongin asks.

The mime points to one of the faded posters on the wall. On it, the image of a woman in a black dress, a raven flying from her hands. The curling letters announce Miranda Bowen, daughter of Prospero the Enchanter, former Illusionist of _Les_ _Cirque des Rêves._ In smaller letters, In Memoriam, Marco Alisdair.

His mind is still too fuzzy to help him remember if he’d ever heard of her, so he looks back at the scribbled writing of the mime.

“Do you think— my friends. How do I save them?” he asks.

The mime shakes his head, eyes wide in horror. He snatches the paper out of Jongin’s hand and scribbles on it, then shoves it back into Jongin’s hand.

“There is no saving them,” Jongin reads. “But I can’t just leave them!”

The mime— Kyungsoo, Jongin reminds himself— looks at him sadly, but he doesn’t make a grab for the paper.

“Is there… do you think someone else might be able to save them? The sheriff?” he asks.

Kyungsoo pulls a face, full of skepticism, then shakes his head.

“So…what am I supposed to do?”

The mime writes with his finger in the air. Jongin mouths out the letters, until he realizes what the mime wrote.

“Escape?”

Kyungsoo nods. Then he walks to the door, opening it slowly. He waves for Jongin to follow him, then grabs Jongin’s hand when he’s close enough. Jongin blushes, but he’s not sure why, because he’s in a cursed circus with a cursed (but kinda cute) mime, fleeing for his life. But he doesn’t have much time to process it before he is pulled out of the shack. He also doesn’t have much time to process why the sky is already the pale gray of dawn. They’d only come into the circus two hours ago, hadn’t they?

~

They hop from stand to stand. Kyungsoo seems extra cautious, peeking from each stand before he pulls them to the next. But when they reach the edge of the circus, where a wide road cuts through the tents and stands, he pulls them to a stop. He stuffs Jongin under the stand and presses a finger to his lips when he sees the question forming in Jongin’s eyes. That question is answered by the burst of a trumpet and someone singing For the Benefit of Mr. Kite. In fact, it sounds like the entire circus band is parading down the stretch of road.

Jongin peeks through a crack in the wood planks. The other mime is leading the procession, marching with splayed feet and a funny face. He’s also the one singing, swinging a giant striped yo-yo as he does so. There’s something so comical about the way the mime is hopping and strolling with wobbly knees that Jongin can barely control his giggles. The mime makes his way to one of the stands and hops on to the counter, flailing his arms as he pretends to fall. It doesn’t help Jongin’s giggles that the mime is changing the lyrics to lewd nonsense.

“For the benefit of Mr. K, there will be a show tonight in the latrine,” the mime sings, “the twinks and jocks will all be there, lining up to be _frotteurs_, what a scene! Over men and horses, hoop and garters, lastly through a circle of friendly fire; in this way Mr. K will challenge the world!”

Jongin snorts, but slaps a hand over his mouth. Kyungsoo clasps his hands over Jongin’s mouth too, for good measure, the panic in his eyes clear. They’re both quiet. The band continues to play, but the other mime pauses, and Jongin can _feel_ the mime looking their way.

But after a few tense seconds, the feeling passes. And just like that, his hysterics disappear. The music changes when the mime jumps off the counter with a barely imperceptible thud. It’s mournful now, a circus’s funeral cortège. They all sing now, low and sorrowful. Jongin doesn’t understand what they’re saying, aside from the word _morte_, but he does understand when they say _Moonkyu_ and _Sungwoon._

He gasps. He pries off Kyungsoo’s hands, trying to keep his breath even. His mind is still fuzzy, but he remembers an arm hanging from the back of a massive clown, the screams, those bloodcurdling screams…

“They’re dead,” he whispers.

Kyungsoo clamps a hand over Jongin’s mouth again, wincing when the music fades.

“Come on, now, don’t make us waste all day,” the other mime says.

Jongin’s blood runs cold. He shouldn’t have spoken, not even that whisper that had been no louder than a sigh. His eyes fill with tears, but something in Kyungsoo’s face changes. The wide-eyed mime takes Jongin’s hand in his, tracing letters on Jongin’s hand.

When he realizes what the mime is telling him, Jongin shakes his head.

“I’m not leaving you,” he mouths.

Kyungsoo gives him a hard look. He traces, “I can’t leave this place anyway,” across Jongin’s palm. But Jongin doesn’t want to leave him behind. They only met a few hours ago (or was it one hour? Less than one? He doesn’t know how time works here), but Jongin’s loathe to leave the mime behind. He’s already lost his other friends. He doesn’t want to lose Kyungsoo either.

But it looks like Kyungsoo isn’t giving him a choice. He starts to drag Jongin towards the missing section of the back of the stand, baring his teeth in a silent snarl when Jongin resists. Jongin’s never been as impulsive as his friends, but now, with his heart ready to jump out of his chest, he decides to be risky. He pulls the mime in for a kiss, eyes fluttering to a close. Kyungsoo stiffens at first, then relaxes and kisses him back. It’s brief (because how long can a kiss last when there’s a murderous circus troupe searching for them?) but when he pulls away the mime’s eyes are glistening. Kyungsoo swallows hard, fingertips caressing Jongin’s lips, but the tender moment is ruined by the other mime kicking one of the stands.

“I know you’re here,” the mime says in a singsong voice.

Kyungsoo pushes Jongin out the back of the stand and shoos him away, then stands up.

“Kyungsoo, what are you do—”

Kyungsoo shoves him one more, then hops out of the stand onto the main road. Jongin is frozen in fear, but when he sees the determination in Kyungsoo’s balled up fists, the defiance in his glare, he sneaks off. He has to. If he gets caught again, Kyungsoo’s life will have been lost in vain.

He comes out on the other side of the troupe. The gate is only a few feet away, so Jongin makes a run for it, pausing behind the ticket booth to peek at the troupe. Kyungsoo has started to run, Granmere right behind him, but he won’t escape. Somehow, Jongin just knows that. He tears his eyes away long enough to run out of the gate—

Only to fall onto his ass. The archway has no gate, but it doesn’t need one. An invisible wall blocks it, part of Granmere’s spell. Jongin tries again, but despite there only being thin air, he cannot leave. He punches the barrier, muttering a frightened curse under his breath. So. He’ll meet his end here. Kyungsoo’s life was for naught. Moonkyu and Sungwoon are dead, and only the higher powers in the universe knew what had happened to Wonsik and Taemin. He hiccups a sob, sliding to the ground with his back to the barrier, but a laugh interrupts his reverie. He freezes, coiled and ready to pounce.

“Did you think I would let you escape?” Granmere asks, tut-tutting as she takes a step towards Jongin. “I suppose I should thank you. This one has always slipped my grasp, but now he will be a good boy.”

Cold. His blood is filled with dread, his heart slowing at the sight of Kyungsoo. The mime walks jerkily, as if still fighting off the spell, and his face twitches constantly between the twist of a grimace and the placid smile that the other members of the troupe wear. Beside him, Taemin and Wonsik, calm and alive, but the empty, puppet-like blankness fills their eyes.

Kyungsoo screams. For a split moment, the spells on him breaks and he makes a grab for Granmere’s cane. The moment his hand touches the cane, his skin starts to smoke, hissing and spitting like pork over a spit, but it doesn’t stop him from tugging hard, driving the cane towards the ground.

But Granmere pulls back, ripping the cane out of Kyungsoo’s hand. She swings, and in that arc the cane transforms into a blade which cuts across Kyungsoo’s stomach. He falls, clutching his stomach, but the red begins to feather across his black and white shirt, seeping onto his sleeves. His eyes meet Jongin’s, fat tears spilling onto the ground. Granmere sucks her teeth, the cane back to normal in her hand.

“He’ll live. But only if you join me,” she says with a grin. “You’ve already taken a fancy to him, I can tell. With a face like his, who can resist?”

Jongin meets Granmere’s taunting gaze, then looks at the fading light of Kyungsoo’s eyes. He grimaces, then spits out, “Fuck you.”

“Now, now, Jongin, behave. If you’re a good boy, I’ll let you two live together forever,” Granmere says. “You won’t ever feel pain again. All you will know is love and music. What bliss, Jongin! This is the perfect life for you.”

She starts to close the distance between them, but Jongin leaps to his feet. He barrels into her and knocks the woman flat on her back before he rips the cane from her hands. It burns, a sharp pain that injects itself into his veins, that makes his eyesight falter, morphing into a miasma of black and white stripes that make him dizzy. He’s disoriented, stumbling backwards as he fights to keep his grip on the cane, but something pushes him over. He’s fairly certain it’s the other mime, but for a moment his vision clears enough for him to see Taemin and Wonsik too.

Panic grips him. It drives him. He rolls, blindly kicking until his feet connect with legs and he sends someone sprawling. He jumps to his feet, cursing when he feels a hand grab his arm, but he’s vicious as he rips his arm away. He holds the cane above him and brings it down with all his strength and—

A deafening crack. It sends a shockwave across the circus grounds, clearing the mist and the dust. The lightbulbs explode in a shower of sparks, popping like kettle corn, and some of the tents collapse, booms of wood and heavy cloth that cough up clouds of dust and death into the sky.

Jongin lets go of the remains of the cane, which clatter onto the white tiles of the path. His hands are trembling, but he can see again. With a shaky breath, he looks up. The members of the circus are all on the ground, but they don’t seem to be dead. No, just knocked down by the shockwave. The mime is splayed at his feet, chest heaving and hands quivering, but he makes no move to get up. The only person who stands is Kyungsoo. His shirt is stained, but the wound… the wound is gone.

“You’re— you healed?” Jongin asks.

Kyungsoo touches the smooth skin of his stomach, exposed by the cut on his shirt. “You broke her magic. She inflicted the wound with the cane, so it’s gone now.”

“Your voice is back!” Jongin cries.

He pulls the mime into a crushing hug, laughing sheepishly when Kyungsoo chuckles.

“You’ve doomed us,” a voice croaks.

They turn to look at Granmere, who is disintegrating. Her left arm is already gone, turning to dust, and Jongin can’t help the pity that settles in his stomach.

“It’s only her and Annette that will die,” says Kyungsoo. “They made the spell, so they will die with it. They were living on borrowed time.”

“What—”

They turn.

“Oh, you’re alive!” Jongin squeals.

He pulls Wonsik to his feet, then Taemin. Both of them nearly fall again, their legs wobbly, but they cling to Jongin.

“What happened?” Wonsik asks.

“That’s…a long story,” Jongin says. “What matters is that we’re safe now.”

“Where’s Moonkyu? And Sungwoon?” Taemin asks.

Jongin gulps, then looks at Kyungsoo, who shakes his head.

“I thought the spell was broken,” he says.

“That doesn’t mean it’ll bring back someone who was killed with a non-magical cleaver,” Kyungsoo says.

“Oh.”

Then silence, in which Kyungsoo goes to the other mime’s side and helps him up. The mime starts to cry, throwing himself into Kyungsoo’s arms.

“It’s okay, Baekhyun. We’re free now,” Kyungsoo says softly.

“He remembers?” Jongin asks.

“I was conscious the whole time,” the mime hiccups. “She wanted me to know that I had no control. The things I did—”

“No,” Kyungsoo cuts him off. “Not now. Now we mourn. We heal. Let’s get out of this place.”

He wipes Baekhyun’s tears dry and they both stand.

“It’s a long way to recovering from this,” Baekhyun says almost bitterly.

“But we can do it together,” Jongin says, offering him a soft smile.

The mime looks pensive, then nods.

And so, hand in hand, the five companions walked out of the gate of the _Cirque du Temps Perdu_ as the sun broke through the clouds.

**Author's Note:**

> if you made it to the end, i lov you. bonus points if you've read the night circus and can point out the references i made in the comments.


End file.
